


Tōp̱eṯ; Jer. 19:6

by reddisk



Category: South Park
Genre: Cult of Cthulhu, F/F, F/M, M/M, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-02-05 11:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12793242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddisk/pseuds/reddisk
Summary: Stan doesn't want to complete the puzzle, he wants to mash the pieces together and hope to God that they fit.





	1. First Circle: "Limbo"

Twitching fingers. His eyes roll back into his head, lined red and dribbling accidental tears. The heels of his sneakers knock against the floorboards with a convulsing sort of rhythm: pins in his mouth, pins in his ears, pins in his eyes.

He’s glad he’s got your attention. Or, he would be, if his brains weren’t mush.

He’s beginning to notice a pattern.

* * *

 

“Is he alright?”

A loaded question. Stan attempts a smile, but it takes sincere effort; hospitals make him nervous. “Yeah. This has been happening a lot lately.”

“Wow,” breathes Butters. “I wonder what it’s like.”

“Yeah.” Stan wishes he had more to say. His eyes burn, a surefire sign that he needs a nap, but he can’t stand walking out on someone who’s been hospitalized. He worries they’ll die while he’s gone, or contract MRSA, or something.

Butters fiddles with his fingers. “I guess we should leave it to his parents, then. I’unno how much good we are just standing here.”

Stan shrugs one shoulder.

“...Yeah.” Butters grins big and reaches for his jacket and keys. He’s always been good at skating through an awkward situation. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Stan. It’s real nice of you to stay.”

One might think it’s rude to assume Stan would hang around in the first place, but he’s notorious for being a big baby over hospitalizations, especially that which concerns one of his best friends. He nods and leans against the ugly white wall. Silently, he wishes he could go home. There’s no sense pretending this isn’t annoying, even if it’s polite to say otherwise, and there’s even less sense pretending this is _surprising_ considering Kenny has been huffing glue since the third grade. Even so, Stan doesn’t buy the epilepsy diagnosis.

(He’s seen kids have seizures before. They didn’t look like that.)

The door to Kenny’s room swings open, and Stan shoulders inside despite a nurse’s halfhearted squeak of “relatives only”. Kenny lies flat against the squashed hospital mattress with half-lidded eyes and a goofy expression. Stan can’t tell if he’s medicated or not.

“How you doin’, pal?” Stan forces himself to sound optimistic and does a very bad job of it.

“S’alright,” Kenny slurs. Okay, he’s definitely medicated. Stan wonders if he asked for the sedatives or not.

The same nurse sets a careful hand on Stan’s shoulder. He knows he’s not supposed to be there, but he doesn’t see why not. “I’ll see you tomorrow. If you’re in school, I mean. No pressure.”

“Oohkay.”

“You’re cool to spend the night alone?”

“Karen’s comin’.”

“Oh, good.” Stan pauses awkwardly. “You’ll call me?”

“I’m not your fuckin’ girlfren’, Stan.”

Stan grimaces. He was supposed to call her an hour ago. “Couldn’t tell. Bye, Kenny.”

Kenny’s head lolls. Stan steps outside politely, but resumes leaning against the wall by the door. He’d hate for Kenny to die alone in a too-bright hospital room, especially at night, he thinks. That’s the loneliest way to die.

Karen arrives within the next fifteen minutes. She’s out of breath, and Stan realizes with a sad pang that she walked here in the dead of night. A thick woolen scarf sits across her mouth and nose, but Stan is fairly sure she smiled as she walked past. Relieved, he makes a beeline for the exit, nodding stiffly at the receptionist and taking a long breath once he steps into the cold. He wouldn’t survive in the heat; he values cold weather far more than he realizes.

Six missed calls from Wendy. Four of which he ignored, two of which he didn’t notice. He unlocks his phone and calls back once he’s in his car with the heat up and radio down.

“Hello, Stan.” She always picks up the phone like she’s been expecting him down to the millisecond.

“Hi. Kenny’s okay.”

“Oh, that’s a relief. Has he been taking his pills?”

“Hell no, they don’t have insurance.”

“Hmm.”

 _Hmm._ What does that even fucking mean? What’s he supposed to say to that? “...Yeah.”

“Yeah, what?”

“Just. Just yeah, Wendy.”

“Oh, alright.” She sounds tired. Stan realizes that he’s an exhausting person, and he suddenly feels insurmountably guilty. He clears his throat.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Stan. Did you have dinner?”

“Not yet.”

“Make sure you do. You won’t feel better on an empty stomach.”

“You’re right.”

She pauses. “Stan?”

“Yeah?”

“...Nevermind.”

Christ. “What’s that supposed to fucking mean, Wendy?”

“See? You’re so angry all the time. It’s upsetting, Stan.”

“I’m fucking upset too! That’s why I’m goddamn angry!”

“I don’t want to talk to you while you’re acting like this.”

“Fine! Fine. Goodbye. Jesus fuck.”

“I love you, Stan.”

“...Yeah. You too.”

She pauses, audibly sighs, and hangs up. Stan sets his phone aside and pulls out of the parking lot with a lead foot; South Park is too empty to care about the speed limit. He knows every inch of the town because he’s been stuck here like a rat in a mousetrap since his conception, and it’s without thinking that he winds up parked in front of his house.

Home sweet home. Front door sweet front door. He hurries upstairs and into his bedroom without any real thought as to whether he’s hungry or tired or in need of a shower. There are more important things to worry about: Vague, important things.

He sits at his computer, impatiently button-mashes the power button, and grapples for his cell phone in the meantime. Two minutes of peevish silence reward him with “ _Eric Cartman is online”._

 

YOU: any leads???

ERIC CARTMAN: Blue Ridge VA.

YOU: got it.

YOU: you’re gonna try the student emails?

ERIC CARTMAN: That’s fucking lame as shit dude.

YOU: yeah well it’s easier than trying to get into the admissions info of a prep school in fucking virginia.

ERIC CARTMAN: Just give me a minute and stop riding my dick, faggot.

 

Stan fidgets. He wants answers now, but they’ve been at this long enough to avoid expecting immediate results. There are still faculty loggins they’re trying to crack. More accurately, loggins _Cartman_ is trying to crack; Stan merely acts as moral support.

ERIC CARTMAN: No Broflovskis.

YOU: you haven’t been looking very long.

ERIC CARTMAN: How many times do I have to tell you I KNOW WHAT I’M FUCKING DOING

YOU: relax princess jesus christ.

 

Unsettled, Stan clicks through his usual social media without really thinking about it: YouTube, Twitter, all the shit he hardly uses unless he’s trying to waste time. It makes him sick. Everything makes him sick.

He stares at the FaceBook search bar.

Delicately, he types “Kyle Broflovski”.

A profile last updated in 2008 appears. Kyle, twelve at most, grins at Stan through the screen. He’s wearing a little suit and tie. Stan has this photo burned into the backs of his eyelids, as he’s opened it and stared at every freckle on Kyle’s cheeks nearly every week since he and his family first disappeared.

Their leaving had to be unintentional. Stan knows that much, because Kyle would have never left him in the dark unless he had no choice, and the Broflovskis had too many ties within South Park to up and leave at the drop of a hat. Nobody just _left_   South Park. Everyone wished they could, but you’d come crawling back within the week if you tried.

There’s something wrong with the town. There always has been, but it’s been getting worse. They need Kyle.

 

ERIC CARTMAN: Yeah this definitely isn’t it.

YOU: what makes you so sure??

ERIC CARTMAN: Cause I’m fuckin good at my job that’s why.

YOU: licking cheeto dust off your fingers isn’t a job, cartman.

ERIC CARTMAN: Shut the FUCK UP stan your moms tits SAG

 

Stan’s ears pop. Annoyed, he tilts his head, visibly wincing. Kyle’s visage watches with dead eyes and a deader expression.

 

CARTMAN: Hey.

YOU: what

CARTMAN: I found something.

* * *

 

Lying upside down across the mattress, he kicks his feet against the wall and allows his head to loll back like a teenage girl’s. Thick red curls defy gravity in their refusal to fall flat. His expression is neutral, although the furrow of his brows suggests a vague irritability that never seems to leave.

“Yes. Yes.” A  headache builds between his temples. “ _Yes,_ mom, I did my laundry.”

“I’m just making sure!” Her voice is shrill through the phone, but it’s reassuring.

“Yeah. Well, I’ve got to go. I’ve got homework.”

“Oh, of course, bubbe. You’ve always been so intelligent! I remember in the--”

Kyle senses that she’s about to blow onto another subject, so he cuts in, “that’s great, mom. I love you. Bye.” He ends the call before she can get a word in edgewise. He’s busy, that’s all. Very busy.

He continues staring at the ceiling.

Very, very busy.

As he sits up, his joints pop, and he winces hard with the bloodrush as he climbs to his feet. Did he do his laundry? No. Will he be doing his laundry? Unlikely. Truth be told, he hasn’t been an active member of society since the sixth grade, but he’d rather pretend otherwise for his own sake. A sense of community goes sorely missed.

In a word, Kyle Broflovski is neurotic. In two words, Kyle Broflovski is _fucking_ neurotic. He chews the insides of his cheeks until they bleed. He hardly eats, usually too occupied with academia or innate stress, and his temper has shortened considerably over the years. These are very personalized issues - it’s not as if he’d survive at Bellarmine if he went around spouting nonsense and punching paper towel dispensers - but they are no less debilitating.

Sometimes, Kyle closes his eyes, sucks in a breath of air, and visualizes his lungs as they expand against his ribcage. He imagines that they stretch to the point of collapse. His internal organs rush into his hands. Then, he picks up the pieces and jams them back into his chest cavity to get on with the day.

Bellarmine is a Jesuit College Preparatory school in San Jose, California, and Kyle wants the entire student body to collectively kill itself. His environment is everything that he doesn’t feel comfortable in: it’s hot, it’s republican, and it’s religious. Prayer is encouraged between classes. Liturgy is celebrated three times per week. The school regularly collects in a stuffy chapel and talks about God, which would be fine if the AC worked, he supposes. Kyle isn’t going to pretend he has any particular notions about religion, as he was raised Jewish and maintains that faith, but it’s hard to pretend he’s committed when he eats bacon and regularly questions his belief in a higher power (sorry, Jesus). He hates that his reality is an all-boys school and Adderall abuse. He wakes up sullen, and he goes to bed sulking. He’s fairly popular but has no close friends, and most of his girlfriends over the years have been distant arm candy.

Kyle rubs at his eyes. The kid down the hall has been smoking enough pot to kill a cat, and it sends him coughing for the fifth time in five minutes. He clears his head with a deep breath and slinks out of his dorm with his hands tucked in his pockets.

(Cracked ribs, bloated lungs, blue lips.)

A vending machine glares neon in the dim light of the hall. Kyle digs in his pocket for a couple of quarters.

(Coagulation, defibrillation, rectification.)

One pack of gum descends from the heavens.

(And without faith, it is impossible to please him.)

“Broflovski.”

His head twists before his body does. It’s his roommate. Kyle’s mouth twitches into a grin, fingers hooked in the pockets of his jeans. “Yeah?”

“Counselor wants you.”

The counselor doesn’t make regulatory calls; usually, it means you’re being SAP’ed. He’d be worried if he hasn’t been deflecting this sort of thing for years. He slips past, following the wall until he stumbles upon the guidance office. 

The counselor is a little lady with perfectly manicured fingers. She smiles as he walks in despite poking at a crossword with the other hand. “Good evening, Mr. Broflovski.”

“Good evening, ma’am.” He tries to sound enthused.

“Why don’t you take a seat?”

He sits. She sets the crossword aside; he gawks at the key and tries to solve the puzzle in his head. There is a long, terse silence.

“...Your grades are polished as always, Mr. Broflovski. Have you considered college?”

“This is a college preparatory school.” He meets her gaze. “No offense, ma’am.”

She laughs like he’s cracked the funniest joke of the millenia. Har, har, har. It makes him sick. “Right you are. Unfortunately, we aren’t here to discuss your college plans, although I’m happy to hear you have something in mind.”

“Right.”

“We’ve received a startling report--” she digs through a stack of suspicious manilla folders sprawled across her desk, “--from a fellow student. He claims you’ve been seen abusing your prescription.”

“I’m on Adderall.” He adds, “legally.”

“Yes, that’s on file.”

“He’s confused or worse.” He sits back in his chair, feigning nonchalance. His ability to lie has been fine tuned to the point of artistry (although it still makes him very nervous). “I’m sure he has good intentions, but if anything, my grades prove that I’m doing better than ever.”

Translation: ‘Ever since I lied my way into convincing my mom that I suffer from ADD, my bank account is happier, because I don’t have to buy pills off of the losers in C Dorm.’

“...I can’t really argue with that,” she says hesitantly, although she skims the report again with one eye. “However, since you’re a repeat offender, you’re going to be flagged.”

“Flagged?”

“We’ll contact your parents, let them know about the accusations, maybe call them in for a conference. It’ll be very painless, Mr. Broflovski.”

Kyle suddenly feels as if he’s been set on fire. “I’m sorry, I’m being flagged for taking my medicine?”

“You know we like to be careful about these sorts of things.”

He’s beginning to sound agitated. “My parents have more important things to worry about than gossip.”

“This isn’t going on-record! It’s just a warning label.”

Staring very hard into the wood grain of the desk, he announces, “‘intestate’.”

“I -- excuse me?”

“Your crossword. ‘Lacking will, Republican exits major highway’. ‘Lacking will’ is another definition of ‘intestate’, and a major highway is an ‘interstate’. The Republican’s exit leads you to remove the letter ‘R’. ‘Intestate’.”

“Oh.” She seems frazzled. “Thank you, Mr. Broflovski.”

“It’s nothing. May I return to my dorm, ma’am?”

“You may.”

He stands, fairly pale, and exits. His mind sings a mantra of epic proportions: this is fine, it’ll smooth over. Your dad is a lawyer. This is fine.

Upon returning to his room, he digs for the pills in his bag and sticks them in his desk drawer instead. If that isn’t enough, if they take control his prescription and begin distributing it through the nurse, he'll just start hoarding pills. A solution to every problem, he thinks, relieved. Reason is natural revelation.

He could use some sleep.


	2. Second Circle: "Lust"

“You’re hogging the snacks.”

  
“I’m a growing boy, dickhead.”

  
“Yeah, you just don’t stop fucking growing, fat boy. Give me the goddamn chips.” Stan smacks Cartman over the temple. After successfully nabbing the bag, he makes a triumphant sound; one of Cartman’s wild punches catches him over the ear and he retaliates with a kick to the stomach.

  
“OW.” Cartman doubles over. “Fuck.”

  
“Shut up, they’ll hear us.” Stan checks his watch, hopes they’ll see something, but knows they won’t. Their overnight road trip to California is somehow lackluster in comparison to the few hours they spend waiting to catch a glimpse of red hair.

  
Cartman audibly sits back on his haunches, breathing hard. Stan ignores him in favor of fiddling with a pair of binoculars. They’re the good kind, a gift from his Uncle Jimbo; he bets he could see God with the fuckers if he pointed them toward the stars. He leans back on his hands as a comfortable silence blankets the evening.

  
As their pseudo-stalking developed, he and Cartman have grown to appreciate one another’s companionship. Frankly, he doesn’t consider Cartman a friend - they’ve been more like distant acquaintances since their freshman year - but they both see how important this is. They haven’t told Kenny, or Wendy, or their parents. It’s like a mutual therapy.

If they find kyle — no, _when_ they find Kyle — they’re going to run out of common ground, and fast.

  
Cartman licks Dorito dust off his fingers. “It’s getting late. We’ve got to be off-campus by three.”

  
Stan squints into the windows, hoping for a millisecond of familiarity. “What if we’re wrong, dude?”

  
“I’ve never been wrong, ever, in my life.”

  
“Maybe we’ve got the wrong kid.” Stan picks at his fingernails. “We’ve really thrown ourselves to the wolves, here.”

  
“We weren’t going to get anything better than this,” Cartman argues. He appears foreign without the usual bundle of winter attire. “He was staring us in the fucking face, Stan. Did you expect a postcard?”

  
Stan is effectively silenced. After some time, Cartman continues to snack. They’re both tired and sore, and nothing of interest takes place until a goose waddles up and gives Cartman hell for his Fritos.

  
“Aye!” Cartman brings a fist against its neck and earns a loud honk. It snaps at Cartman’s leg, and suddenly there’s enough screaming to send the gates of hell screaming open. The goose makes off with the Fritos amidst the commotion and Cartman prepares to give chase.

  
Stan thinks he’d be laughing if they weren’t trespassing so loudly. “Give it up, dude!”

  
“You’re fucking kidding me!” Cartman doubles over and wheezes. “That’s a hate crime!”

  
“Bird-on-white crime isn’t a hate crime.”

  
“A hate crime is defined in Merriam Webster as--”

  
A new voice, fuzzy with sleep but vividly annoyed nonetheless: “SHUT THE HELL UP!”

  
Stan and Cartman both freeze. They stare at one another for a moment, panicked, until Cartman shouts in response: “mind your fucking business, gayboy!”

  
“I’ll mind my business when you freaks stop touching dicks in the bushes outside my window!”

  
“Hey!” Stan cups his hands around his mouth to for volume. “We’re not touching dicks!”

  
“We can touch dick all we want, bro, America is the land of the free and the home of the brave! Y’fucking monkey!” interjects Cartman. Then, in a hesitant whisper toward Stan, “is he black?”

  
Stan squints into a series of windows. Bellarmine is at least three stories tall, and it takes a great deal of sweeping until he notices a figure bathed in neon. The stranger appears as a messiah, everything more and nothing less; yellow light haloes his silhouette. Stan feels his heart flutter.

  
Are you there, God?

  
“GET OFF MY LAWN, YOU FUCKING PERVERTS!”

  
“FUCK OFF, WE’RE--” Cartman stops. He grabs at Stan’s arm and yanks hard.

  
“I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

  
O my God, you are my God; earnestly I seek you;

  
my soul thirsts for you,

  
my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land

  
where there is no water.

  
“Stan!”

  
“What?” His eyes brim with glass.

  
“It’s Kyle!”

  
Nobody speaks. Then, timidly, “how do you know my name?” echoes from above.

  
Stan Marsh sees stars.

 

* * *

 

Stan only realizes he’s conscious when he begins to understand the conversation above him. Given that he’s lying across what he presumes to be a freshly mowed lawn, he can’t have been out for very long. Such is vaguely reassuring against the strain of the evening.

  
“...Should we do something?” asks a voice. Kyle. Stan recognizes Kyle’s voice, and it feels like cold lemonade on a hot day.

  
“Get up, pussy,” says Cartman. A foot digs into Stan’s side; he groans.

  
“Dude, knock it off.” Kyle steps between the pair. “He’s sick, or something.”

  
Stan blinks. “Kyle.”

  
“Uh, yeah?”

  
“Kyle Broflovski.”

  
Kyle appears resigned to reality. “Stan Marsh.”

  
“You recognize me!”

  
“Of course he recognizes us,” snaps Cartman. “It’s only been a few years.”

  
Kyle doesn’t do anything for a moment. He seems to be sizing up the situation; Cartman was the closest thing he had to a childhood bully, and he’s being forced to socialize like it’s 2010 and they’re all friends again.

  
Best friends again. Stan’s stomach leaps into his chest.

  
Kyle bites his lip. “Look, honestly? I don’t know why you guys are here, and it’s sort of weirding me out.”

  
“Weirding _you_ out!” exclaims Cartman. “Who dropped off the face of the Earth five years ago?”

  
“Oh, and you cared that much. You fucking hated me!”

  
“And I still do, heeb.”

  
“That’s about what I expected.” Kyle rears up. He’s gotten much taller, taller than Stan at the least, and he manages to be intimidating despite wearing NASA pajamas. “People like you don’t fucking change. You just _fester_. And then, one day, you commit suicide in your mother’s basement, and the world is better off for it.”

  
“Yikes,” says Stan without thinking. All eyes are suddenly on him. Uncomfortable, he continues, “this isn’t why we’re here. If you two can’t get along, we aren’t getting Denny’s.”

  
“Who said we’re getting Denny’s? You people stalked me!”

  
“I don’t trust him, Stan!” Cartman is more agitated than Stan has seen him in years. “We should have him cuffed in the trunk, not fucking wined and dined.”

  
“There’s no reason not to trust Kyle,” Stan says firmly. “It doesn’t matter how long it’s been. He’s a good person.”

  
Kyle makes a sound like an angry cat. “Stop talking like I’m not here! Why the hell were you outside of my window?”

  
“We didn’t know it was _your_ window, primadonna --”

  
“Kyle, we’re here because we need your help. South Park’s fucked.”

  
“South Park has always been fucked!”

  
“Like we don’t know that! The point is, things are getting worse, and we think your family knows why. You just left!”

  
“Bellarmine is really strict, Stan. I don’t keep social media because they’ll use whatever they find against you.” Kyle’s voice takes on a new tone. He sounds like he’s soothing a child, and while it may be degrading, Stan feels better for it. “You guys know why I left. It’s not that big of a deal.”

  
“We don’t know why you fuckin’ left, dude. You just got gone.” Cartman sits on the ground and begins fiddling with a Bic lighter.

  
“Really? My parents said they told you.” Kyle seems surprised. “I was hospitalized, remember?”

  
“No, we definitely don’t remember,” says Stan firmly.

  
“I was sick. Like, really sick. They thought I had leukemia.” Kyle rubs at his arm like he remembers the bloodwork. “They sent me to a specialist in Santa Barbara and it was easier for us to move. They gave you my address, didn’t they?”

  
“If we had your fucking address, this would have been a lot easier!”

  
“Shut up, Cartman.” Stan furrows his brows. “They thought you did, but you didn’t.”

  
“Yeah. It just, like. Stopped. They were about to start chemo, but I started eating again, and my blood cell count was back to normal.”

  
“And you have no idea why?”

  
“Nope. I wish I did. By then, my parents didn’t want to move again, mostly because of Ike. So, we stayed.” Kyle’s neutrality on the matter is forced. “And now, I go here.”

  
“You go here,” Stan echoes. He feels strange.

  
Kyle raises his eyebrows. “Right. Do you feel alright, Stan?”

  
“Oh, I’m fine. Trust me. Listen, I know this is sudden and stupid and super suspicious, but we need you to run away with us and fight crime.”

  
“What the fuck.”

  
“Maybe not the fighting crime part. That was an artistic liberty.” Stan offers a sheepish grin.

  
“That’s insane. What is this, sexual trafficking?”

  
“Of all the people,” cuts in Cartman, “why would we traffic you?”

  
“I don’t know! I don’t know anything! This is just,” Kyle sucks in a breath, “really, really sudden.”

  
“All of life’s best opportunities are,” Stan suggests lightly.

  
“God. You sound like a motivational speaker.” Kyle is disgruntled, but a smile works its way onto his face. “It’s a Friday. I’m allowed out, but if I don’t report to liturgy tomorrow, they’ll call my parents.”

  
“They won’t know where you are.”

  
“Are you suggesting that I run away from home?”

  
“Well,” Stan pauses, “yeah. That’s exactly what we’re doing. Look, dude, you obviously aren’t happy.”

  
“What? I’m happy! I’m brimming with joy.”

  
“Kyle, we need you.”

  
“You still haven’t explained why.”

  
Stan realizes that they only have a hunch. That wouldn’t be very convincing, so he decides to keep moving forward. “You’re sixteen, right? Turning seventeen in May. If you’re going to rebel, do it fucking now. You’ll be paying taxes before 2020.”

  
Kyle stares at Stan and Cartman in equal measure. He looks queasy, and his jaw visibly clenches. The world stands on a precipice.

  
He mumbles, “let me get my things.”

 

* * *

 

On their regularly scheduled roadtrips, Cartman takes his mom’s car. It’s a great power that comes with very little responsibility. Kyle naps awkwardly in the backseat and Stan finds himself routinely checking to make sure he’s okay.

  
“So,” begins Cartman, fiddling with the gearshift. He doesn’t usually drive, but Kyle’s presence seems to have put a thorn in his side.

  
“Stop touching that.” Stan keeps his voice hushed for Kyle’s sake. “What is it?”

  
“All these years, and we’ve captured the Jew.”

  
“Shut up. It’s been months, not years.”

  
“Same difference!”

  
“Be quiet.” Stan checks the rearview for Kyle. He’s still asleep; evidently, a much heavier sleeper than Stan thought (or maybe just tired). “We’ve got to come up with something to keep him occupied. If he thinks we’ve got nothing, he’ll panic.”

  
“So? Stan, you asked for my help, and I gave you my help, and we’ve totally bonded over it --”

  
“And I appreciate it.” Stan tries to sound understanding. “But we’re supposed to have a phase two.”

  
“Just tell him the truth. You got any smokes?”

  
“You can’t smoke, Kyle has asthma.”

  
“That fucking kyke.”

  
Stan falls silent. He cocks his head toward the back seat to get a good look at Kyle. For a moment, Stan worries that he’s conscious and listening, but the slow rise and fall of his chest and says otherwise.

  
He looks more like how Stan remembers him when he’s sleeping.

  
Kyle might not be the solution. In fact, he just _isn’t_ \-- he only has the information they need. Be that as it may, Stan can’t help but feel that Kyle needs them more than they need him.

  
(Okay, maybe not, but he feels better about the situation if he puts it in that perspective.)

  
Kyle’s lashes flutter, and his mouth parts; he must be dreaming. Stan leans forward to get a better look.

  
Cartman cuffs him over the ear. “Stop creeping, faggot.”


	3. Third Circle: "Gluttony"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while

Stan’s house is smaller than Kyle remembers it to be. Christmas decor used to seem so extravagant, but now, the only appropriate descriptor Kyle can think of is “cheap.” The walls need to be painted, the couch is the same worn piece of furniture he remembers, and he recognizes every picture hanging on the walls. It’s as if things have been frozen in time. It’s home, and he loves it. 

“It’s not much,” Stan offers, “but it’ll do. My parents probably won’t even realize that you’re here.”

“I’m not picky, dude. Don’t worry about it.” Kyle sits on the edge of Stan’s mattress. He’ll probably be bunking on the floor until things blow over, which is fine, but he makes a mental note to ask about a vacuum cleaner. Stan’s bedroom has matured, unlike the rest of the household. The walls are bare save for a few taped photos, football equipment is thrown haphazardly in the corner, and he spots numerous plastic water bottles scattered under the bedspring. In middle school, Stan would fill them with vodka. Kyle hopes he won’t smell liquor on the lids.

As he raises his head, Stan hurriedly looks away as if he was staring. Kyle’s ears go hot.

“So,” Stan improvises. “What’s on your mind?”

“What do you guys want from me? How’d you find me?”

“I meant, like, what you wanted for lunch.” There’s a long sigh. “Cartman and I want to figure things out before we explain.”

“Isn’t that counterintuitive?” 

“You’d make a great lawyer, dude.”

“Shut up.” Kyle throws a pillow. “Keep talking.”

“Your family is the only family to leave South Park. Almost ever. Everyone tries. Or at least, they  _ want  _ to try, but they end up back where they started. Remember my parents’ divorce? Or Kenny’s stint in foster care?”

“I guess.”

“Right. Anyway, that isn’t the only suspicious thing. You left no contact information. You disappeared, and so did your parents, and your web presence turned to dust. Things didn’t get bad until recently, but you’re the only clue we’ve got.”

“What do you mean,  _ bad?” _

“South Park has gotten an affinity for the occult.” Stan stares into space as if he’s looking for an apparition to prove it. “We’ve been featured in magazines, we’ve been on fucking Ghost Adventures, but nobody says anything about it or admits to it. It’s like we’ve got a cult made of nobody that keeps keying cars and digging holes in the cemetery. Hell’s Pass has been flooded, dude.”

Kyle furrows his brows. “I don’t think that’s dangerous enough to warrant my involvement.”

“That isn’t the full story. You need to trust me, Kyle.”

“I trust you,” Kyle says automatically. 

Stan seems pleased. “I trust you, too. We’re going to get through this. Besides, like I said before, think of this as a vacation! Your parents are going to ground you no matter what when they figure out where you’ve gone.”

“Oh, fuck, don’t remind me.”

“We’ve got to get your mind off things.” Stan sits up. Kyle studies his expression, the way his mouth quirks upward and how his eyes glitter with the sunlight pouring through the windows, and he wonders if he’s ever trusted someone so much in his life with so little reason to do so.

“We could order pizza.”

“I was thinking bigger than that.” His brows waggle.

“Olive Garden?”

“We’re throwing a party, you fucking moron.”

“Oh.” Kyle suddenly feels very stupid. “I thought I was supposed to be a secret.”

“Nah. I’m making a group chat now, it’ll be great.”

Kyle thinks it’s very irresponsible of Stan to tell everyone that he’s in town when he’s so sure that he’s some sort of weapon. If things had become so dangerous, then it would be in their best interest to keep things under wraps. Does Kyle offer anything besides his ignorance? Isn’t he the perfect candidate for a local evil?

He needs to think. “Yeah, it will be.”

* * *

 

The party doesn’t start until Clyde cries about his sexual inadequacy. From thereon, there’s more booze than there are people to drink, and Kyle would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious enough to sip on a wine cooler. It’s strawberry kiwi and tastes like how pancake syrup feels on your hands.

Stan stands with Jimmy, laughing over the music, and Kyle thinks he might be dreaming. He hasn’t seen these kids since pre-pubescence; it’s as if they’ve all been in a bubble, growing up for the sole purpose of becoming caricatures of themselves.  Kyle is admittedly interested in seeing his classmates after so long. Their features, once puppyish, have evolved into the sort of potential he could have only imagined.

“Kyle!” Stan has been drinking, but he’s coherent. “Kyle, look, it’s Token.”

Token is decidedly tall and handsome. He seems antsy, but his smile is beaming. “Hey, dude, it’s been forever.”

“It has.” Kyle moves in for a handshake before realizing that nobody in high school gives handshakes, so he retrieves his hand and pretends to smooth back his hair. “Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Token’s smile doesn’t fade. It’s a funny sort of plastic, and Kyle feels like he’s making the guy uncomfortable, so he just nods and looks to Stan for some sort of out: Stan offers none. Rather, he pokes Kyle in the ribs, and he laughs like hell even though Kyle doesn’t react besides a quirk of his brow. 

“Sorry,” says Token. He’s no longer smiling. “He’s, uh. Drunk.”

“I’ve seen him worse.”

Stan knocks back the dregs of his beer. “If y’all would stop monitoring my BAC like my fuckin’ headlight’s out, that’d be nice.”

“You want something to drink, Kyle?” asks Token, as if he’d rather be anywhere but in Kyle’s presence.

“I’m not much on drinking.” He swills the remainder of his wine cooler. “I prefer to smoke, honestly.”

“Since fucking when?” asks a voice, and when Kyle turns his head, he feels the tectonic plates of his stomach shift.

you are still fleshly; for since there is jealousy and strife among you, you are not fleshly, and are you not walking like real men?

“Kenny,” says Stan, very pleasantly, and then his face drops and his hands jerk at his sides. “Kenny, you - hospital?”

“If it ain’t my favorite alcoholic.” Kenny claps Stan on the shoulder. He’s grown roguishly handsome, but his flaws steadily creep into realization the moment you think too hard: the gap in his teeth, acne scars, greasy hair and knobbly limbs.

His eyes, thinks Kyle. His eyes. They are otherworldly, indescribable, not in hue nor shape but in how they pluck Kyle’s tendons like the strings of a lyre. He’s hit with an overwhelming urge to throw himself into traffic.

“You’re supposed to be in the hospital,” repeats Stan.

“I’m better.”

“No way.”

“Believe it or don’t, buddy,” says Kenny, and Stan laughs, and Token laughs, and Kyle laughs, too. It wasn’t that funny. He didn’t even  _ want  _ to laugh.

“I’m going to get a drink,” says Kyle.

Token frowns, but says nothing. Stan rubs the back of his neck.

“I’ll come with,” offers Kenny, and Kyle’s innards scream.

* * *

 

Kenny smokes like a fiend. He rolls a sloppy joint against the kitchen counter and only offers a hit once he’s finished a third of the thing in two puffs, and Kyle accepts, even though is asthma is acting up something awful. 

“Welcome back,” says Kenny. He’s got a freckle above his eyebrow that Kyle doesn’t recognize. 

“Yeah.” he takes an awkward sip of beer, and it takes sincere effort not to physically recoil at the taste. It’s like weak piss. “Everyone looks the fucking same.”

“Nah. Cartman’s fatter.”

Kyle laughs, but stops quick. “Since when has he been hanging around Stan, anyway?”

Kenny offers a lazy smile. “Don’t be so jealous. Ain’t attractive.”

“No, I just-”

“They’re not friends.” He takes another hit, and smoke curls from his nostrils like two lit matches. “Business associates, morelike.”

“Are you going to  _ explain,  _ or do you like being a smug asshole?”

“I’ll tell you anything you’d like. I’m not here to be vague, dude. That’s Stan’s thing, not mine.”

“I want to know everything.”

“Now  _ you’re  _ being vague.”

“I - well - how the  _ hell  _ did they find out where I live?”

“Yeah, funny story.” Kenny’s grin goes wolfish. “Your face was on Bellarmine’s front page.”

“That. What.”

“Yeah. Y’know, those photos they put up to make things look good and conversative?” 

“I didn’t give them permission to do that!”

“I think it was a yearbook thing.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Kyle is tempted to see the photo himself, but refrains for fear of making himself sick. “So, they drove to California.”

“Uh-huh. All for your perky li’l butt.”

“Don’t.” Kyle gestures for the joint, takes a long hit, and wonders if his lungs have collapsed yet. “Why am I here, in your words?”

“Someone’s made a mistake.” Kenny looks Kyle in the eyes like he’s trying to figure him out, and he doesn’t seem to breathe for all of six seconds. “You’re going to fix it.”

“First of all, I’m not obligated to clean anyone else’s mess.”

“That’s only one thing.”

“What  _ mistake? _ ”

“Have another beer, Kyle.”

Like he’s dangling from a string, Kyle reaches for the fridge, but snaps to attention halfway through the act. “Fucking - stop that.”

Kenny’s mouth twitches. “Stop what, dude?”

“Nevermind.” Kyle rubs his arm, unsettled. “You’re being vague, and you said you wouldn’t.”

“Yeah? I lied.” Kenny is still smiling, showcasing the stupid gap in his teeth, and Kyle’s insides seem to buzz with an electrical current.  He feels the distinct urge to dip his hands in hot tar.

_ Wouldn’t that be nice, bubbeh? _

“I said,  _ STOP. _ ” Kyle cuffs himself over the ear. “STOP, STOP, STOP-”

“Whoa, guys.” Token pokes his head in the door. “You good?”

“Yeah, just horsin’ around,” says Kenny. He drops the end of his joint in the sink. 

“Be cool. Seriously.”

“We will, dad.”

Token laughs, a little nervously, and leaves. Kyle’s vice grip on the kitchen island tightens. 

“They were right.” Kenny surveys in Kyle in full, and he offers a low whistle. “You’re just as smart of a cookie as you were in elementary school.”

“Obviously,” spits Kyle, feeling very vulnerable and ugly and strange. “What the  _ fuck,  _ Kenny?”

“I’m glad. I really am.”

i have fed you with milk, and not with meat ; for hitherto ye were not able to  _ bear  _ it, neither yet are now ye able .

“I - I don’t like this.” Kyle’s head swims. He sits right on the linoleum tile, and bile rises in his throat. “I don’t. I’m sorry. I’m - God, God, help.”

“You want answers?” Kenny is no longer flesh and bone, as he’s evolved before Kyle’s very eyes, tall and dark and all-encompassing. Flame spits from the sockets of his skull. Awful things, ugly things, they writhe at his feet -

Kyle realizes from his position on the floor that he  _ is  _ one of those things. He moans, and it’s pitiful even to his own ears.

“I’m not a liar.” Kenny’s incisors take up the entirety of the room. “I’m not here to get in your way, man. I want answers. In fact, I'm just like you.” His voice throbs against the walls, Kyle’s ears, his temples, his everything.

Then, everything goes white. He can’t see. He’s been robbed of his personhood; there is only Kenny, his bony elbows and acne scars and baby blue eyes, oh, God, his fucking  _ eyes. _

“Kyle?”

He’s in the kitchen again, and he’s sweating bullets. He picks himself up off the floor despite a sudden and debilitating lack of coordination. 

“Don’t.” Kenny McCormick is mere man again. His brow is furrowed, and his lovely eyes go wide and concerned. “I know you want to punch me. Don’t, please.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Kyle only recognizes his voice because of its angry tremble. 

“I shouldn’t have done that.” Kenny looks away. “Wasn’t right. My bad.”

“Yeah.” Kyle raises his chin as if he has an ounce of pride left in his body, which he doesn’t. “Your bad.”

“Why don’t you talk to the Biggles, Kyle?”

“What, like, Bradley? Bradley fucking Biggle?”

“His sister, actually.”

**Author's Note:**

> will try very hard to update bi weekly! there is a definite plan with this fic. talk to me on tumblr @brofski if you're cool.


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